sprovence
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D. Kotsiopolous, Naked
Dorian Kotsiopolous Naked After my mother-in-law lost her gripin the bathtub, after the surgery to patch her fractured hip, after we moved her to the Copley nursing facility, suddenly, she loved me. She forgot that I was not of her village or religion, that I breastfed her grandchildren. She’d kick her husband out of her…
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M. Kirby, Echo
Merie Kirby Echo of Tectonic Plates I sink into the earth where I’m set down, mineral roots seeking community, tentative among all the deep prairie taproots, slow to mingle and entangle. Tectonic plates of home shift thousands of miles away, vibrations passed root to root through granites, sediment, limestone, sandstone, through ice plant and sagebrush,…
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J. Goodfellow, On Fearful Symmetry
Jessica Goodfellow On Fearful Symmetry In art, odd numbers are favored. Asymmetry hangs on its axis like a pole dancer, like a tattered banner in capricious wind. And why is wind asymmetric while rain is symmetric?Human faces thought as beautiful tend toward symmetry. The bell curve ought to be the belle curve or the belle…
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L. Foley, Dodes’ka-den
Laura Foley Dodes’ka-den, Dodes’ka-den Watching Kurosawa’s Dodes’ka-den at the theater, in the early days dating my film professor, his tweed beret cocked, his arm in the dark pressing into mine, mine pressing back. Strolling through Washington Square Park after rain, vivid park lights shine in the black night like constellations. Like train tracks clacking,I feel…
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M. Maddox, Poetry Reading with Drumming
Marjorie Maddox Poetry Reading with Drumming -Bethany Retreat Center Each is a beat on repeat, the organs of voice and vision syncopated. Tapped rawhidealternates New Age and Ancient: pulse of the body pa-pumming thud of the syllables tha-thumpingin chest and wrist, ear and larynx, cardio and poem circling the room,rocking the earth, in the deepgreen-blue…
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L. Grace Weldon, Unseen Patterns
Laura Grace Weldon Unseen Patterns I should know more about graceful poetic forms— ghazals, sestinas, mathnawis, villanelles, sonnets, tankas, quatrains. I’d rather swim close to secrets held in coral reefs where a five-inch fish creates meaning within patterns. Before mating, the male Japanese pufferfish swims in circles, tiny fins scraping sandinto symmetrical ridges.He enhances the…
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R. Emerson, Bigfoot
Renee Emerson Self Portrait as Bigfoot They fill my print with cement, save scraps of my hair in bags. They imagine we are close, even related. I see no resemblance—when have they wokenwith dew in their furlike live stars?When have they helda wolf cub close to their heart to feel the growl, and return it?I…
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R. Emerson, Loch
Renee Emerson Self Portrait as The Loch Ness Monster I do not need anyone to believe in me. I am the shadow beneath still water, feeding in the depths on rumor.Still, they do believe—with t-shirts,mugs, photographs taken on cloudy day.They need to hold their beliefs in two hands.I am not afraid of them but do…
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C. Clemens, Deep Time Pearl
Chris Clemens Deep Time Pearl Once I dreamed I was a pearldeep beneath the blueejected from my shelly bedtangled up, askewa little push, a tiny shoveforever missing oyster’s loveI try to wake, but can’t – you seepearl time moves quite differentlya hundred years or more might passand a pearl would never know Chris Clemens lives…
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T. Jenne, Blood Moon
Taisa Jenne Blood Moon Look!Low moon.Blood-blown.Blooms.Not of hollyor thorn wood,not of pondor coy brook.Moon of ghosts.Moon of gold gloss.Moon of blood on snow,of cold floods,of old, old worlds. Taisa Jenne is a writer, poet and educator living on Wet’suwet’en territory in Northwest Canada. Back to Issue